


Silk

by Wintervention



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Historical, Bathing/Washing, China, Fairy Tale Elements, Long Hair, M/M, Rapunzel Elements, Royalty, Unrequited Love, foot binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 15:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19726795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintervention/pseuds/Wintervention
Summary: The young prince Yut Lung has lived most of his life hidden away from the dangerous outside world by his family, kept in a suite at the top of a tower with only a servant and a knight to keep him company. One night, he receives an invitation to a party hosted by the emperor, and finally has his first opportunity to leave the tower since he was a child. However, all is not as it seems- at least, not while the servant and the knight have anything to do with it.Featuring amazing art by Jellyfish_Tacos





	1. Blue Silk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jellyfish_Tacos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jellyfish_Tacos/gifts).



The bath is already cold when Blanca arrives.

Yut Lung had listened, in that both dreadful and blissful state halfway between sleep and the waking world, as the servant boy had arrived for his morning duties. A door stands between his room- a cupboard, in essence, furnished only with a bed and a sink- and Yut’s own quarters. Older than the kingdom itself, it had been forged from the trunk of the largest redwood tree growing on their land. Into the wood, the most skilled craftsmen had carved elegant peacocks, fierce tigers, and swirling filigree. Once, long ago, the designs had been gilded, and as a child Yut Lung had spent many of his hours tracing the delicate lines with soft fingertips. But as he had grown older, his fingertips no more rough than they had been in his earliest years, the leaf had begun to crumble. He would pull his hand away only to find it painted the same shade of gold that lingered on the door, the walls, his clothing and his jewellery. 

He can’t remember a time when he had not been woken by the sound of that door swinging open, followed by the lightest of footsteps on woven mats as the servants had gone about their duties, taking care not to disturb their young master too greatly. Some had been more successful than others, often the ones who were just as young, green, and had much to prove about their worth. When Sing had arrived, more than many moons ago, he had hung a small bamboo chime from the ceiling above the door frame. It didn’t create any more noise than the ones already singing in the wind outside his windows, and rather tended to blend in with them. The effect was subtle enough that most would hardly even notice it, but for Yut Lung, it was a welcome addition. More than a chime, it was a small personal touch in the home still laced with his mother’s touch, and for that he was grateful. To this day, it remains in place.

His eyelids flutter as the hollow sticks of bamboo swirl around each other and the door creaks open, but his body does not stir, comfortably enveloped by silken sheets woven and dyed under his own window by the local women. Sing’s feet pad lightly on the mats as he makes his way over to the opposite window and opens the shutters with gentle movements. The air is still today, but cold nonetheless, and Yut Lung finds himself unconsciously wrapping himself tighter in the silks as his pale skin begins to tremble. He listens, but does not watch, as Sing tosses a rope down to the lush green grounds surrounding the tower, winding it first around a hook on the outside wall so that it does not slip from his grasp. A similar hook stands in the same place on the edge of Yut Lung’s window, near to where his head lies when he sleeps. There, a group of the nearby village folk wait there at the bottom for the rope’s arrival, each of them holding a bucket or basket of their finest produce.

The majority of them will carry crisp, clear water from the springs high on the mountains, collected in the hours before dawn to ensure it will not go stale. Some others will bring with them the milk of their goats, still warm from the freshness, the white colour no darker than the prince’s skin. Their daughters will hold smaller, lighter baskets filled with sweet flowerheads and their liquid essences, yellow magnolias, blush peonies, and the delicate elixir of blossom water. One by one, they will attach their wares to the rope, and Sing will pull them up to the terrace. He had struggled at first, when he was still young and his arms stick thin. Yut Lung would listen to his struggling breaths and pained grunts, but not once would he offer to help. Now, Sing does not spill from those heavy buckets of water as he sets them down on burning coals, lest the prince should have to suffer the indignity of a cold bath.

The golden tub has always stood proudly in front of the hearth, moulded feet in the shape of claws settling atop a plush rug. The deep, round shape and thick metal walls have always been efficient at trapping the heat of the liquid inside, steam rising to fill the room like a sauna if the windows are not open, despite its grand size. Now, however, that milky white solution swimming with the childrens’ delicate flower petals sits unused. As the sun rises over the hills, and as the suite fills with the shimmering light, the bath is abandoned- but not forgotten. Sing, bless his efforts, lights an array of candles under the bath in the hope that they might warm the depths, but no amount of candles could begin to touch the volume of liquid. 

He watches as Yut Lung comes to himself, awoken truly by the perfumed scent, and does little else but stare longingly at the rising steam as he shivers. His legs are crossed limply beneath him, pulled in towards his body in an effort to conserve heat, but otherwise of marginal use to him. In the morning’s glowing light, his heart suffers for the prince’s pain. His feet, no more now than mangled stumps, are left unbound overnight so that the skin might breathe. Sing does not stare, for that would be unimaginably rude, but from the corners of his eyes he sees the folds of skin, red welts from where they are pushed together, and the ever present tiny purple bruises he’s come to expect. To not be able to walk a mere ten feet, if that, so that he may soothe his aching bones in the heat of the water- Sing cannot even begin to comprehend how well he bares it.

As light as the prince’s bones are, and despite what little plump fat surrounds them, Sing cannot lift him as he does the buckets, his limbs too long and lithe to manipulate with any ounce of speed or care. And so, they are left to the mercy of Blanca, the prince’s aide, as they are every morning. The knight is often punctual, arriving within the hour of Yut Lung’s waiting, but on this morning the ornate sundial situated in the centre of the room ticks long past the hour, leaving the prince not only cold and aching, but hungry also. Their mornings have never strayed from the routine of bathing, grooming, dressing, before finally, eating, and with each second that passes, Yut Lung’s tiny stomach begins to ache just as much as his feet. Sing almost begins to prepare a small pot of congee on the stove- a breakfast far too dense for the prince, but the only thing available to him in that moment. If it were to stop the prince’s ache, he would have broken any custom, but a sudden noise stops him.

The sound of the bell ringing up the walls of the tower and over the emerald fields comes as such a relief that neither the prince nor his servant quite believe they had heard it at all, rather than simply imagining it. The ring dances in through the windows, absorbs itself into the woven bamboo mats with a resonant vibration, and swirls in the vaulted atrium roof, surrounding the two of them in the pleasant sound. Meekly, his limbs still unsure after hours of rest, Yut Lung pushes himself up from his bed and climbs onto the windowsill above it, opening his own shutters with a subdued vigour. Even from such a height, he can see the expression on Blanca’s face as he stands looking back up at him. Expectant and unrelenting, without even the slightest hint of apology in his eyes. Others would beg the prince for forgiveness, on their knees with their heads at his feet. He can expect no such thing from the Western knight, standing tall and solid in his burgundy uniform.

With a delicate hand, Yut Lung loosens the ribbon ties around the rolled-up ladder hanging from the hook, and watches it unfurl. Blanca catches the bottom rung before it hits the ground, and begins to climb with great speed and precision. This is, after all, a task he performs twice daily- often more- and as such he has become quite practised. The prince slides back down onto the mattress as the knight nears the summit, handing over a basket of fruits, which Sing collects dutifully, before climbing through the window, taking great care to avoid dirtying the sheets with the soles of his boots.

“I apologise, my prince,” he says.

There’s no kneeling, no respectful bow of the head or even lowering of the eyes, and no acknowledgement of what he might be apologising for. Yut Lung is taken back, not by the audacity of such a simple greeting, but that he saw it necessary for him to say sorry. They’re long since past the point of bowing, having known each other for the majority of Yut Lung’s life, even being considered as equals on his father’s part. Something truly significant must have happened, the Prince thinks, for Blanca to be so reverent within seconds of his arrival. But he has no time to dwell on it, for as soon as the knight has found his footing, his arms wrap underneath Yut Lung’s shoulders and lift him up from the silks to balance on shaking feet.

Yut Lung reaches out to a nearby cabinet to stabilise himself as Blanca’s arms move from his own arms, down to his waist. Two hands, larger and coarser than his, snake underneath the opening in his robe, and begin to warm his ice cold skin as they wrap around his waist. They almost meet together when they settle just above his hip bones, the tiny dip cradled beneath them, and act to keep the prince upright. He had been sickly as a child, Blanca remembers, and shockingly so. In the two decades since, he had never regained any of his family’s disposition. Sing unfastens the ties on the gown, and slides it carefully over the prince’s shoulders, exposing a pure white expanse of skin unmarred by any imperfection, be it bruise, blemish, or pox scar. His fingers brush the lines of Yut Lung’s collarbones as the fabric floats down to the ground, collecting silently into a puddle at their feet, and leaving the prince bare.

Lithe arms crawl up to encircle Blanca’s neck, as the knight crouches to support the back of Yut Lung’s knees, and lift him into a cradled position with the most gentle of movements capable for a man twice the size of the prince. He walks with steps low to the ground, keeping his gait steady to avoid jostling his precious cargo, over to where the bathtub still waits. Sing tests the water. It is no longer hot, as he had expected, but not so cold that it would send the prince into illness, so he nods his approval to Blanca. 

Yut Lung’s feet hit the water first. He gasps in shock at the sensation, pulling back in reaction. Blanca tries to lift him back up and away from the liquid so that it may be rewarmed, but the prince does not let him. Inch by inch, he lets the water surround him, suppressing any reaction that may worry his servants as his body begins to unfurl. The metal along the bottom still holds some heat from the candles, and he allows himself to relax on the warmed surface as his body disappears from sight under the white of the milk, and the blanket of petals atop it. Sing cradles his neck, and tucks a slightly padded pillow beneath it before letting the prince’s head relax, making sure each strand of hair that had come loose from its styling overnight was pulled free of being trapped there.

The servant pulls up a small stool behind the tub, and sits with one of his knees bent on either side of the prince’s head as his posture begins to soften. He begins to run his fingers through onyx black swathes of hair, each strand finer than the silk that decorates his little palace, all of them beginning to collapse out of the meticulously crafted hairstyle balanced at the nape of his head and hanging down his back, pulled by the prince’s tossing and turning as he had dreamt that night. There are no ornaments or jewels adorning him, only a carefully planned network of turquoise coloured ribbons, each one playing its own role in forming a cage to keep the majority of the hair secure. When Yut Lung was a child, as his hair had first begun to grow, he had not yet learned that keeping it tidy and out of the way would prevent dirt and knots from forming as fast. Every morning had been spent fruitlessly trying to comb out the mess. Sometimes the servant would take pity on him and offer to help, even if they had work of their own begging to be done, as was most often the case. Other times, they would simply ignore his stifled cries of pain. Now, it is not so much a necessity, as it is a comfort to feel deft fingers working to untwist the style.

Each movement releases a wave of hair, floating down from its confines in the same way that the water in the streams flows down the hills. Sing catches each lock, cradling it more delicately than he would a babe, and laying them to rest over his lap so that it never comes into contact with the floor. When he had first been assigned to work for the prince, the waterfall of hair had grown to the point of tickling the skin above the backs of his ankles. Now it sweeps behind him when he stands with it loose, and even comes close to doing so when it has all been tied up. He combs through the strands with his fingers, and not once does he hit a snag. The harsh, boar bristle brush sits unused. Blanca strides over, and collects up each one of the ribbons, setting them down just as gently on Yut Lung’s dressing table.

The prince, whose eyelids had once again fluttered shut in his unguarded state, awakens with a start as the knight moves behind him. His arms move to cover his body, even though the goats milk provides him with a layer of modesty, and he sinks lower into the bath, pulling his hair down with him. Sing arranges as much of it as possible in the water beside him, watching it float like a cloud of charcoal.

“Is something the matter, Sir Blanca?” he asks, curious as to why he still lingers in the suite rather than leaving the prince to bathe, as is their usual routine. Blanca sighs, struggling to sit on one of the lower chairs in the room, and resting his elbows on his knees. His hands clasp together, fingers rubbing against each other as he starts to chew his lip.

“I bring news, your grace. Your brother caught me on my way here to share it, and he asked me to pass it on- that’s why I was late.”

“If you have news, then tell it,” the prince urges.

Blanca hesitates.

“I am not sure it is something you would wish to hear.”

“There are many things that I do not wish to hear, Sir Blanca,” Yut Lung begins, “But my brother will have asked you to share this news for a reason.”

Sing places a tentative hand on the prince’s shoulder, massaging the tender skin there to placate his master, as all his muscles pull taught under the water.

“It would appear that your brother has organised a ball.”

“It would appear?”

“He has- your brother has organised a ball. He is planning to host a delegation from the isles to the East, and from the vast lands to the west.”

“My brother organises events all the time, I do not see how this is any different,” the prince argues, attempting to put up a more relaxed front. Sing can feel the way his muscles continue to tense, even with the mere mention of his brother.

“Forgive me, my prince, but your brother has requested your presence at the event.”

The silence that follow is stifling, not even the swing of the bamboo chimes in the morning air, or the movement of the water to break it. Yut Lung swallows, and lifts his chin.

“Well if my brother has requested my presence, then surely I shall attend. I am not sure of the reason for the delay in sharing this message, Sir Blanca- did you presume that it would upset me?”

“I didn’t wish to presume anything, your grace. I simply thought it may come as a shock to you, that is all,” Blanca denies, raising his hands in supposed innocence.

“Yes, perhaps,” the prince stutters, swallowing again, his throat rough like sand. 

“I’m hungry,” he states simply.

“Would you like some lychees?” Blanca asks, their previous conversation apparently forgotten. The prince nods.

“And some tea, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

As Blanca makes his way over to the kitchenette with the basket of fruits he had brought with him, Yut Lung begins to slide further into the bath until he is fully submerged in the water. There he lies, bringing his hands up to his scalp to massage the hair there, soaking it through fully. When he begins to run out of breath, he pushes himself back up into a seated position, made all the more difficult by the added weight and volume of his wet hair, and his hands nearly slipping on the smooth surface of the bottom of the tub. He picks up a fine linen cloth from a side table by the hearth, and begins to wipe it over his skin with the most gentle of caresses, the threads of the fabric studying each line and curve of his body as it moves. With a wide-toothed ivory comb, Sing continues to comb through the lengths as their tea brews, filling the room with a new and welcomed warmth.

In a tiny bone china cup the colour of ducks eggs, Blanca brings a steaming portion of tea, but the prince does not drink it. Instead, he takes the cloth and folds it, before dipping one corner into the tea. As Blanca holds the cup for him, the Yut Lung dabs the corner of the cloth on his cheeks and under his eyes, and whatever redness had plagued that porcelain skin disappears. When he is finished with the ministration, another cup is presented to him, and this one he takes in two dainty hands to sip quietly. Between sips, Blanca hands him tiny prepared portions of lychee fruit, which the prince eats slowly, savouring the taste on his tongue. All the while, Sing massages lightly scented oils through the ends of the prince’s hair, the last ten inches hanging over the lip of the bathtub.

When an hour has passed on the sundial, and the water has well and truly gone too cold for comfort, Blanca rolls up his sleeves and lifts Yut Lung from the bath. Sing helps to wrap him in another robe, this one lined with towelling fabric to dry the prince, before he is settled back down on the bed.

“Will that be all for today, my prince?” Blanca asks once Yut Lung is comfortable.

“I should think so.” he replies.

“I have organised for a musician to come play for you today- something different than usual might brighten your spirits.”

The prince nods his gratitude.

Once more, Blanca climbs onto the windowsill, and begins to make his way out of the window and onto the ladder. Yut Lung almost watches him go, but a sudden wave of thought crashes over him. He reaches his hand out to catch Blanca’s thigh before the knight exits completely with a quick and urgent “wait.”

“Yes, my prince?”

“The ball, you didn’t tell me- when is it?”

Blanca sighs again.

“The ball will be held tomorrow evening, your grace.”

The prince stifles a gasp.

“And you’ll be there? You’ll accompany me to the ball, stay with me there?”

“It would be my privilege to do so, your grace. Is that all?”

“Yes, sir Blanca.”

And with that, the knight leaves, without so much as a simple goodbye. 

As he watches Blanca disappear over the horizon, Yut Lung once again finds himself sat on the windowsill. This time, Sing has laid out for him a fresh piece of silk to rest on, this one a deep shade of magenta and patterned with birds, a stark contrast to the black of his robe. He pulls the ladder back up and re-rolls it, before returning it to its hook, ready to be cast down in a hurry later if need be- and it will. Satisfied in its security, he turns back around, but does not climb down from his perch. He organises his hair so that it all falls down his back in a curtain, catching the sun as it begins to reach its highest point in the sky. It will be dry in no time, and the light warms his back in a way that the water could not. 

In a small bronze bowl, Sing takes a portion of the milk and water solution, and sets it in a purpose built wooden flame over a selection of the candles he had kept back for this purpose. Within only a few minutes he is appeased by its new heat, dipping his hand in to test, and collects a basket of linen strips before settling in to place at the prince’s feet. He takes the prince’s left foot in his hands with a reverent touch, and sets it in his lap. One by one, he picks up the linen ribbons and soaks them in the mixture, before wrapping them tightly around Yut Lung’s foot.

He does not watch as he arranges them in an intricate pattern, each one wrapping around others and crossing over itself to ensure it will not come loose or undone. His fingers know the lines of these designs, and he performs the work quickly and carefully. The muscle memory is all the better- the servant cannot bare to look at the prince’s abused feet without becoming distracted. He knows that this is a necessary evil, the prince being unable to even stand without the aid of the fabric to keep his toes and his ankles sturdy. When he watches Blanca lift the prince, carry him to and fro, Sing can’t help but wish he were the one upon which the prince relied. Of course, he would prefer it if the prince didn’t have to rely on anyone, the caged bird longing to walk, to dress himself, to feed himself. But he also sees the way Yut Lung looks at Blanca, eyes wide in gratitude and something akin to infatuation, and he cannot admit that he isn’t tossed into the throes of hideous jealousy by it. So he concerns himself with the needs of the prince that he is able to meet, and he meets them to the highest standard.

“Sing, may I ask you something?”

The sound of the prince’s voice being directed at him shocks him to the point of dropping the piece of linen in his hand, causing the last three wraps to come unfolded before he could tie them off. Yut Lung has not spoken his name since his first week of service, and he had forgotten what it sounded like to hear his voice- his real voice, not the saccharine sweet, regal tone he uses with the knight.

“Of course, your grace,” he replies, bowing his head respectfully.

“Why now?”

He sounds tired, but not quite exhausted. Not angry, but there’s something unpleasant playing on his mind.

“I’m sorry, my prince, I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

Sing dares to look up. The prince does not look at him when he speaks, but simply stares off into the distance behind him, his eyes like polished glass and his eyebrows furrowed.

“I have lived in this tower for my entire life, and my mother for most of hers. The last time I left this place, I was ten years old. My father was dead, and my brothers told me that they never wanted to see me again. And now they seem to have changed their minds, and for what? To parade me around and pretend that there’s nothing wrong?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know, my prince,” the servant hums, his fingers slipping as he listens to the badly masked strain in Yut Lung’s voice.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised- I’m not, really. Taken aback, perhaps. I’ve never been anything more to an object to them. And now they’re going to use me to further the kingdom’s relationship with other lands. If nothing else, at least they’re acknowledging that I have some value.”

“You are valuable,” Sing interrupts suddenly.

Yut Lung, apparently unaware that the servant boy had been listening to his melancholy musings, whips his head around to stare at him, his pupils blown wide. Sing, who had not meant to speak out so impulsively, would usually shiver under the prince’s gaze. Something about the suffering so clear in his voice has made him angry enough to forgo all manners and decorum. He lifts his head and stares back into the eyes of the prince, his jaw tensed as he continues to speak.

“Do not let anybody, not even yourself, tell you that you have no value- it’s not true. You are innately valuable by virtue of being alive, and nothing can detract from that.”

“I am the value of my face, my hair, and my feet. I am the value of what makes me beautiful. This, I have been told on no uncertain terms. Pray tell, why do you think we perform this damned ceremony every morning?” the prince spits back. He ducks his head, but this does not hide the silver tears trailing down the white expanse of his cheeks.

“I have to wrap your feet, my prince, otherwise your ankles would collapse. It is not my decision.” Sing begins to excuse himself.

“I know,” the prince sighs, “I know that none of this is your doing. But it is a painful reminder, nonetheless.”

“I understand.” Sings voice is weak with sympathy.

Yut Lung turns his head to watch the world pass by outside his window, but does not remove his feet from Sing’s cradling hold.

“May I continue with the wrapping, your grace?” he asks tentatively. The prince hums his affirmative.

The two men sit in silence, until out of the blue, the usually silent prince speaks again.

“I don’t think I’ll be coming back here after the ball,” he says confidently.

Sing pauses at the interruption, but does not stop. He has moved on to the other foot, and is halfway close to finishing.

“There’s a door, did you know? Nobody is allowed to use it, and I’m not sure that anybody has a key, other than my eldest brother. Not even Blanca. But the door is there nonetheless. And how am I supposed to leave the tower for the ball without using the door? I can hardly climb out of the window like Blanca does.”

The servant nods to show he is listening, but does not look up again. He’s not sure this is a train of thought that his master should be following, nor is it one he should be privy to, but it’s not his place to tell the prince when to stop.

“My brother is going to give Blanca the key to the tower door tomorrow evening so that he may come and collect me. My brothers won’t do it themselves, God forbid I should take up any of their precious time and energy. He’s going to open the door, he’s going to carry me down the stairs, and then he’s going to take me far away from here.

“He told me he would, when I was a child. After my mother died, he used to sit with me during the evenings, until I fell asleep. My servant at that time was not so kind, and I presume he took pity on me. Every night, I would lie there and listen as he told me stories about his life in the mountainous lands to the west of here. He promised he would take me with him one day, and I suppose he’s never truly had the opportunity to do so- before now.”

“And what will become of me, your grace? When you leave?” Sing asks.

This has Yut Lung pausing to contemplate the answer. Of course, the sweet servant responsible for reminding the prince of everything he despises, through no fault of his own, and having the strength to stand tall throughout the prince’s adverse reactions, had not found his place in Yut Lung’s freedom fantasies.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps you could find someone else to serve- it won’t be a prince, granted, but I imagine there are plenty of nobles and noble sons in need of assistance. I’d certainly put in good word for you.”

Sing’s heart sinks like a rock to the bottom of a river. His hands shake as he ties off the last linen strip of ribbon around the prince’s ankle. Serving under the prince has not been an unpleasant experience- he doesn’t have to worry about money, all of his meals are paid for, he has a roof over his head and his bed, his own bed, is a comfortable one. The same could not be said for his cousins toiling on farms and struggling in the cities. But the idea of a lifetime of servitude is one he does not care to ponder, and to have been dismissed so simply stings, even though he should expect no less from royalty. He does not let his feelings show.

“More tea, I think, then something more substantial to eat. Tomorrow will be a tiring day for you, my prince.”


	2. Red Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring art by Jellyfish_Tacos

Yut Lung’s feet have not grown since he was ten years old. For the last public engagement, or engagement of any kind that he was welcomed to, his father had bought him a new pair of shoes. To celebrate the occasion, it had been said, though the occasion was one of which the prince was never entirely made aware. Growing up, he had grown accustomed to sweet fruits, comfortable furnishings, and fine fabrics. Well wishers struggled to source gifts that would be of any note to him. Each one would be admired briefly out of duty and politeness, before being set aside, never again to catch the prince’s interest. The shoes were different.

They were silk, but a silk far smoother than one he had touched before. Against the deep crimson background, golden threads of embroidery glittered, tiny plants swirling around the ankle, wrapping down his foot to the toe, and trailing along the join of the sole. The fabric was not as loosely woven as Yut Lung was used to, but held its shape well- and what a strange shape it was. Far from the delicate slippers wrapping around the barest amount of skin, the kind he had worn as a child, these were tall, and almost box like in shape. The toe had a slight, delicate point, which made it seem far smaller than it should have been. The rim around the ankle pulled together at another point directed down towards the toe.

The sole was half as long as any other shoe in his collection, and the width just as narrow. Two years earlier, almost to the day, a handmaiden had wrapped his feet for the first time. He had cried as the binds dried and tightened in front of the hearth, leaving tiny blisters underneath the bandages. She had told him to count himself lucky that she did not break every one of the tiny bones beneath his ankles first. He didn’t. Within those two years, his toes had crunched, his arch had warped, his heel had collapsed, leaving the appendages petite and curved. ‘A lotus’, his father had said as he slipped the new shoes onto his youngest son’s feet for the first time, his eyes wide and his smile beaming as if they were made of jade. 

The shoes have spent the better part of the last ten years in a box, tucked away on the top shelf of a cupboard, out of the prince’s view- but he never had any doubt that he would stop being able to fit into them. As such, when Sing has climbed atop an old stepladder to retrieve the box and brought it down to present to the prince, the shoes inside are the first element of his outfit to put on.

Wrapped only in simple white linen undergarments, the prince has arranged himself artfully on one of the room’s lounging chairs. The fabric is loose around his legs, but pulled tight across his chest, tied on both sides with simple red ribbons to keep his skin covered. Darkness has fallen over the room, but he does not shiver. His feet hang over the edge, glistening with the softening oils he had prepared himself with upon removing his bindings only minutes ago. Sing kneels before them, a shoe in each hand, before setting one down and taking the prince’s ankle with a tender touch. 

The shoes encompass the porcelain skin of Yut Lung’s foot with ease, not once catching either side despite the servant’s reluctance to watch his task. One after each other, they slip over the bones and muscles. Within seconds, his feet no longer feel limp and useless at the ends of both his legs, as the shoes’ structure moulds them into position. Placing his hands on the woven surface of the chaise lounge, the prince pushes himself up, and finds himself standing for the first time in his memory- or at least, how far back into his memory he cares to delve into. The movement is reminiscent of a newborn deer raising to meet the world for the first time, but he soon steadies himself, holding his chin high without falter. 

Sing keeps his eyes lowered as the prince basks, setting about his next task. Hanging up across the wall is each piece of Yut Lung’s ceremonial hanfu. Like the shoes, it had been hidden away for years, the vibrant colours only now seeing light again. Under the light of the candles dotted around the suite, and the silvery moonlight pouring in through the open shutters, each garment glows river blue and camellia red. Ribbons of hammered gold, the same shade as the ones flowing through the fabric of the shoes, pick up each slither of light dancing about the room. From the collection, Sing first selects a skirt. 

A soft, gentle shade of duck-egg blue, the skirt is one panel rather than being joined with a seam. Along the waistline, nearly one hundred pleats gather to add volume and flow. When worn, the back drapes with an impressive train, though the servant boy has no doubts that the magnificent design will be well covered by the prince’s hair as he walks. He wraps it around Yut Lung’s lithe waist, using the ties to pull it in and secure it there. The fabric is light and airy around his legs, flowing silently with each minute movement.

Next, he selects an overcoat. The colour is a richer shade of blue, and the silk is just as light, hanging perfectly on the prince’s body. Sing helps him guide his arms through the sleeves, his fingers barely emerging from each cuff. He keeps his arms raised as Sing wraps the garment around him once, then twice, before tying it in the same fashion as each other piece. A binding of the lighter blue shade follows the spiral of wrapped fabric, breaking through the sea of cobalt, and forming a band around his waist. Even under several layers, the dip of his waist is prominent. A teasing decolletage peers through the v shape around the prince’s neck, the rest of his body obscured. The sleeves pool on the ground at either side of him.

“Which sash would you like to wear, my prince?” Sing asks.

Three options hang before them. One golden, phoenix flame woven into the design. One the same pale blue as the skirt with tiny freckles of gold interspersed between the colour. The final, a proud, unyielding shade of red.

“Why not all three?” the prince replies with a smile. Sing nods dutifully.

First, he selects the periwinkle cloth, and folds it in half lengthways. He wraps it around the prince, snaking in between the folds of draped fabric between them, and ties it neatly at the back, folding the tail back up under the belt. Then the red. He folds it into a smaller width before performing the same action. This time, however, he does not tuck the tail away, and instead leaves it to hang and sweep with the train of Yut Lung’s Han Fu. Finally, with the gilded silk, he creates a much thinner belt to cinch everything together at the prince’s natural waist, and ties it at the front. He pats everything flat, eliminating any remaining crease, and guides the prince towards the looking glass to admire himself.

Yut Lung’s chest heaves as he looks at himself. His face betrays no sign of any unpleasant emotion, but the light in his eyes seems conflicted. Sing studies the way his eyebrows twitch, his lips purse, and how tentative fingers trace the lines of embroidery on his overcoat. Neither says anything. The prince sits at the table in front of the mirror, carefully arranging the layers of silk around him. The servant lets his master’s hair loose once more to begin the evening ministrations of combing and styling. On the table in front of him sits a wide array of combs, ivory and jade, dripping with jewels and crystals collected from every corner of the kingdom, and even further. 

Unlike the shoes and the Han Fu, these have seen far more use, but appear pristine nonetheless. Sing had spent a great deal of the evening previous polishing each stone and comb tooth individually, each accessory becoming cleaner than the last. He has known all this time, however, exactly which one he intends to use- the prince’s favourite. And as such, he knows Yut Lung will not argue. Sing has every intention of keeping his master placated on this night, dreams of him returning to his prison in a state of pure anguish still weighing like lead on the servant’s mind.

On the other half of the table, standing bright against the dark mahogany, is a large collection of cosmetics and maquillage, collected piece by piece by Blanca at the young prince’s insistence. Over the years, he has become quite the artist with a maquillage brush, painting intricate designs on spaces as small as his eyelids and lips. Tonight, he will keep it simple.

He slides lithe fingers into the ribbon wrapped around a small pouf of downy feathers, and dips it into a clay pot of white chalk powder. With a delicate touch, he taps the powder over his skin, his pallor smoothening with every cloud of dust that lifts. Next, with a different pouf, he takes a paltry amount of a peony pink powder and spreads it over the lines of his cheekbones. The touch of colour, he’s been told, makes him look less sickly. Blanca is sure to like it. Two more pots sit beside the powders, both of them twins in their tiny width and depth. One is a dark ebony wood, smoothed and shined, each line of the grain visible. The other has been painted an elegant shade of red, glossy and pristine. The contents of each pot matches its exterior in both colour and intensity. 

This time, however, they are pastes rather than powders, meticulously ground and blended with the oils of cashew nuts. Taking a fine-pointed brush, not entirely unlike one used for calligraphy, Yut Lung paints a line of red over both of his eyelids, and brings the colour to a fine point extending past the corner of his eye. The black follows, an even more narrow and practised line extending the same way, brushing over each eyelash. The prince adds one last flourish of the red paint to his lips before stopping to admire his work.

Behind him, Sing is making the final arrangements to the prince’s hair. It had been a special request from Yut Lung’s brothers, or so they had been told, that the prince’s hair should be left to flow as freely as the rivers surrounding the kingdom, with no masterful styling to keep the pampered ends from trailing behind him on the floor. This does not mean that the servant will let his master be presented to delegations from kingdoms far and wide looking like a simple farm child with no time or expenses for frivolities such as hair styling. Instead, he takes only the very top layers of the prince’s locks, and arranges them in tiny braids looping around the crown of his head, each one encircled by fragile golden beads that catch the setting sun as he moves his head. With these, he creates a strong foundation into which he can slide the woven gold comb into. Droplets of jade hang down to adorn the prince’s head- Sing thinks the colour brings out the light in his master’s eye, and can see why it’s Yut Lung’s favourite.

* * *

* * *

A knocking sound resonates throughout the room.

It is loud, shocking both the servant and the prince, but distant. The door between each of their chambers is untouched. The windows’ shutters do not rattle under the weight of a fist. The sound is followed by a fleeting pause, before the pair hear the creaking sound of unused hinges, followed by the unfamiliar noise of footsteps on stone steps. This comes as even more of a shock than the initial knock to the prince, who after more than a decade hanging his tresses out of windows and feeling the pull of weight on his scalp, had forgotten that a door to the outside world even existed at all. It is not that gilded, carved door which opens, but rather a panel in the papered walls Sing had never thought to notice before.

Eyes wide, and hands crossed demurely over his lap, Yut Lung turns his head expecting to find the tall, broad, commanding presence of his knight-at-arms standing there to greet him. His face drops as he comes to realise that the space that should have been taken up by the western man was in fact only half filled by some unnamed guard dressed in the sigil of his brothers’ family.

“I am here to escort your highness to the ball,” he states simply with a bow of his head. A set script, rather than him noticing the prince’s confusion.

“And what of the knight, Blanca?” Yut Lung asks, his voice sounding stronger, more demanding than his heart feels.

“The knight is already in attendance at the ball, your grace, at the request of the King. He has been relieved of his duties for the evening.”

The guard knows too much, Yut Lung thinks. This was not a last minute decision, a job taking longer than Blanca had originally anticipated. This was planned, by his brothers and by Blanca, who by extension had lied to the prince about acting as his personal escort. He wants to be angry. He wants to scream at the guard, at Sing, at anybody unfortunate enough to listen. But he doesn’t. He stands slowly on shaking feet, rejects the servant’s offer of an arm to lean on for balance, and holds his head high as he says,

“So be it.”

The guard leads him down the darkened hallway, and Sing follows closely behind. In the courtyard at the foot of the tower, five more guards, each of them just as faceless and nameless to Yut Lung as the other, stand to attention. They surround a grand jiao lined with purple velvet, the entrance sitting where the stone meets the grass. He enters, sitting down stiffly with his back straight, before his feet get the opportunity to touch the earth for the first time in his living memory. The cushion, soft and padded as he knows it is, feels like cold brick beneath him. The sky has fallen dark, the last rays of the sun disappearing over the horizon as the prince waits for the jolting sensation of the jiao being lifted and carried towards the palace. It doesn’t come.

He risks a glance back over his shoulder, and finds one of the guards stood at the entrance to his tower, engaged in conversation with Sing. The servant does not cross the threshold of the doorframe, that much the prince can see, but the expressions on his face are obscured by the man stood opposite him. Yut Lung knows what they are discussing- the details of his imminent return to captivity, no doubt. He hopes Sing will have a light meal prepared for him upon his arrival- his stomach is empty and his head weakened by the sensation- to be washed down with a steaming cup of tea made with sleeping herbs.

The door slams, leaving Sing trapped inside the tower once more, while Yut Lung’s head swims with dizziness at the shock of feeling a cold night’s air surround him fully for the first time since he can remember. Without the comfort of familiarity and assured safety, his skin prickles, and he realises to what extent he had always relied upon the walls surrounding him to keep him calm. He doesn’t want to admit that, perhaps, he had built the outside world up in his head to be such a fantasy, that the truth could never compare. He won’t admit it- it would be treason to himself. Another quick look is spared towards the guard, now approaching the carriage. The prince scans his face for any betrayal of anger or hope, a simple indicator of what he and the servant had discussed. He finds none.

Closing his eyes, and letting the breeze caress the gentle lines of his resting face, the prince pulls his legs up onto the seat and wraps his arms, sleeves trailing behind them, around his body. He rests his head on the pillowed wall of the carriage, careful not to knock his hair, and begins to wait out the journey to his brother’s palace. The guards lift the carriage, jolting as it raises, but Yut Lung does not react. Halfway in between sleep and the waking world, he is the picture of a porcelain doll, finely handcrafted over years to the point of perfection, then callously stashed away to protect him. People have suffered for his beauty. Yut Lung has let them. The ride to the palace is not a smooth one.

* * *

Yut Lung does not remember what the palace looks like. He knows what the palace looks like, of course. Paintings on bamboo scrolls compiled by the masters hang on every wall of his enclosure. Towers, pagodas, verandas and statues, each of them watching the prince, telling him, “Look where you’re not”. But he cannot conjure the image of the landscape in his mind- he’s never wanted to. He does, however, remember the last time he was brought up the lane leading up to the palace’s gates. It had been a warmer night than this, even warmer with the weight of his mother’s arms wrapped around him. He wasn’t yet used to the pressure tightening around his feet, and he would whine when they were jostled. The feeling of silk on skin has not changed throughout the years passed. But he did not watch the view of the ascent up the hill, for another piece of silk, thin and stark black, had been placed over his eyes. His mother had warned him not to remove it, not to even touch it, and he had obeyed.

Now, he can see the lanterns guiding the way, each a tiny speck of yellow light blurring with another to form a lit path up to the palace. The pagodas tower over the lamps, reaching far enough into the sky that the tops cannot be lit from the canopy lanterns. A golden shift catches over the slight ripple of water, fountains and streams surrounding the palace walls, and stirring the gentle sound of running water. The noise of the river by the tower’s valleys soothes Yut Lung- this does not. Even the most cynical of citizens would struggle to not be captivated by the palace’s beauty, and there is a reason it attracts so many foreign delegations. The prince holds back an amazed gasp, basking in the glory no painting could depict, as he is carried up the steep hill leading up to the palace doors.

There, he is expecting to find an entirely separate company of guards and escorts waiting there to hold his hand as he exits the carriage, and to lead him into the great hall. In the middle will be Blanca, stood ready and waiting for the honour of holding the prince’s waist to steady him should he need it. The shoes themselves are comfortable, but his feet are already weary and unstable from the position having taken no more than thirty steps, at most. Instead, he finds nobody. No guards, no escorts, no noble late arrivals. The guard who had first welcomed him into the carriage appears around the side once more to help him back out.

“Are you ready, Your highness?” he asks.

Yut Lung does not shrug in response- he was raised better. But neither does he speak a word. They begin to walk anyway.

Gilded doors swing open, and every face in the room turns to stare at the prince. Every eye tries to catch his, blue, green, brown or black, a far more vast array than he had ever been presented with. He doesn’t let them- his gaze is trained solely on the line of men sat in high-backed thrones at the opposite side of the room. He has not seen them in years, but he knows their faces. It sickens him. The one sat in the centre, his eyes the most wrinkled and his hair the most pepper-grey, lights up as the prince enters the room. Eyebrows quirk, a smile beams, and Emperor Wang Lung begins to rise up out of his seat as he beckons for the guard to bring Yut Lung closer.

Beside him sits, not a brother of the Lung dynasty, but another man- this one entirely unfamiliar to Yut Lung. He looms taller than any other in the room, his shoulders twice as broad, with skin pale but not porcelain, and no hair. Purple velvet cloaks his body, a style unfamiliar to the prince. This must be the representative of the western delegation, Yut Lung thinks, staring him down with the same curious and hungry eyes as each one of his brothers.

As he walks reluctantly towards them, the crowd parts, and the silk of his gown trails behind him, the billowing fabric hiding each laboured footstep and making it appear as though he is gliding across the floor. Here, it is hard, cold, marble slabs- stunning white with streams of gold- rather than the soft woven mats of his tower. Each step is carefully calculated to avoid slipping on the polished stone, or tripping over the swathes of glossy hair that follow.. The blue pools around his ankles as he comes to a pause at the bottom of the raised platform upon which the thrones sit, curtseying politely and keeping his gaze lowered. The Emperor gestures to the prince to come closer, so he does. He ascends the shallow steps with the grace of a fawn who’s just found her step, his arms extended slightly to the side, with no escort to keep his balance.

He does not extend a hand, but the western man takes it, placing a rough kiss to the prince’s knuckles. Yut Lung can feel the spike of hair growing back in above his top lip after a recent shave.

“Astounding, isn’t he?” the Emperor exclaims in a language the prince cannot understand, turning to his guest with a confident grin. “A prime example of what our kingdom has to offer. Finer than any statue or artwork, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“I must say,” the foreign man begins, “When I first read your correspondence, I thought the descriptions of this beauty were all falsified. Surely, nothing could be so perfect that their allure could go beyond words. Now, I believe you may have done him a disservice, for he is far more lovely than your prose could have ever led me to believe. The Gods have truly blessed your kingdom, my friend.”

Yut Lung does not listen to the foreign tones on their tongues. With both the men capturing each other’s attention, The prince’s other brothers listening intently, and the crowd having gone back to their drinks and their networking, Yut Lung raises his demure head from the plush carpet lining the steps. There, he finds another face staring back at him- The knight. Clad in the same purple as the Western man, with his hair smoothed back neatly, his gaze stumbles as it meets Yut Lung’s deep brown eyes. But he does not turn away. Neither does he have the decency to look even the slightest bit sheepish having suddenly been caught in his lie.

The Prince wishes he could look away. Not out of embarrassment or discomfort, but to hide the way his lined eyes widen in surprise, and how his cheeks blush with longing under his white mask. The latter, he is sure Blanca cannot discern, but he knows that the feelings behind the former will be clear to the knight, no matter how emotionally uninvested a facade he had most often portrayed. His chest pulls tight under the taller man’s scrutiny, Blanca’s face showing no hint of emotion or thought. Yut Lung’s stomach begins to turn as he considers all the possibilities. 

_Stupid child, thinking I’d come back for you. Are you so full of desire that you are only capable of hearing the words you wish to, and manipulating the truth. I have never cared for you in the way you may have. I have never thought of you as anything more than a duty. Now, you are not even a priority- pathetic._

Long, manicured nails dig into the tender pink of his palms, sleeve hiding the crease in the skin and the delicate trail of blood sleeping from it. Tiny flecks of crimson paint chip off the prince’s fingernails and mix with the tortured flesh. Blanca, finally, as if he had only just become aware of the prince’s presence and had not spent the last few, drawn out moments staring into his eyes, nods his head respectfully. 

The collar of his western uniform, an unfamiliar sight but a known feeling to the knight, catches slightly on his chin as he raises his head once more. His line of sight moves away from the prince, and settles above his head, mindlessly watching the guests dance and talk amongst themselves. Yut Lung returns his own gaze to the ground, hiding the way his eyes begin to glisten with tears he will refuse to shed.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying him. When I had the pleasure of laying my own eyes upon your little protege, I almost began to worry that he would not please you. You seem to have an art for curation yourself,” Wang Lung continues.

“I wish to remain humble, but I suppose I do have a certain talent for such things. I’m biased towards my own, naturally, but I’ll be the first to admit that his temperament can leave little to be desired. On the contrary, yours is a beauty in more ways than one.”

“Speaking of your boy, it’s as if he were listening to us. Is that his head of gold I see over there- with the young Earl of the Eastern kingdoms?”

The Emperor’s tone changes, cautious but not challenging, as he directs the attention of the pair over to the southern corner of the room. He glances between the scene and the Western King, whose face changes with the Emperor’s voice, from a satisfied smile to a barely-masked anger. Yut Lung raises his head, the soft sound of hanging jade beads rattling as he turns to look over his shoulder.

* * *

It takes Sing over a minute to open the door to the tower. He does not count the seconds, but he knows that it is certainly an extraordinary amount of time. Left to the elements, the metal mechanism has warped and rusted, blooms of red spreading over the tarnished silver. The key, slipped carefully into his pocket by the benevolent guard, seems to have been subject to an entirely different yet just as destructive fate. The metal is bruised and scratched, with each narrow prong melted out of shape from being left in a drawer by a heater and forgotten about. The wood of the door, swollen and bloated from rainfall and cracked with age, sticks in the frame once the servant boy has heard the click of the lock releasing. 

He braces his shoulder up against it, and leans his body weight forward, to no avail. He takes a step back, once again angling his tightened shoulder in the direction of the wood- to the side nearest the lock, where its strength is its weakest. He takes a deep breath, murmurs the first prayer to escape his lips since his arrest, and charges forward. The door jolts, and for a brief moment Sing fears that his efforts are futile, before the oak swings forward onto the courtyard. His body falls with it head-first, but he kicks out a leg to balance himself, and simply trips across the paving stones rather than falling flat across them.

The sound of donkey hooves shuffles on the stone, a wooden cart rattling behind him. Beside the beast, a local farmhand, not much older than the prince or the servant boy themselves stands with one arm crossed over the other, leaning on his cart, empty of cargo. Through a series of carefully planned and planted notes left in fruit baskets over the past week, since the news of the party had first spread throughout the kingdom and its surrounding lands, Sing had managed to arrange transport for himself to the palace. There, he had carefully laid out an elaborate scheme so that he and the prince might be free of the tower’s confining walls for the rest of their days. It had yet to work- it has yet to even begin- but the sight of the farmhand and his donkey brings him an overwhelming sensation of pride and success.

The two exchange a nod of greeting. No words are passed between them as Sing climbs nimbly atop the cargo hold of the cart, and the farmhand assumes his position at the driver’s seat. The servant boy holds tight to the wooden walls around the cart as the animal springs to life, beginning to travel at a much faster, rougher pace than he had anticipated. With only pastures and fields available for him to look over for a significant portion of his life, Sing has forgotten the roads and lanes of the kingdom. The palace, he has been told, is much closer to the tower than they had ever realised, standing proudly behind one of the many hills. It will not take them long to get there. But Sing, despite all his preparation, cannot know what is happening to his master inside the gates of that palace. He only hopes that, whatever it may be, he arrives there on time to be able to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so honoured to be able to work with Jellyfish_Tacos on this project. From one of my favourite authors to one of my favourite artists, their help has been invaluable throughout this process. I couldn't have finished this without them.
> 
> Thank you for being so patient and encouraging, your comments when i shared these chapters with you never failed to brighten my day. Perhaps one day we'll have the opportunity to work with each other again, and you know i'm always available to talk about beautiful and decadent descriptions of things x3.
> 
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	3. Black Silk

Yut Lung dares a glance over his shoulder, jet black waves of hair barely moving to follow as he angles his delicate neck to look behind him, following the intense line of gaze of everybody else in the ballroom. In the corner, he sees a flash of gold- not the gold of the vases and the walls, but the shining colour of flowers blooming a brilliant yellow under the light of a midday sun. A young man of an age similar to his own, but opposite in every way as far as appearances could be concerned. His hair was spun flax, his eyes greener than any jade stone, and his skin pale and freckled with tiny brown spots dotted lightly over his nose, as though someone had taken a paintbrush dipped in ink and flicked it towards him. He too was dressed in the western fashions of the aged, bald man stood before the prince- a stark contrast to the other young man stood to his side.

Both of their eyes were wide, dark next to light, one challenging and bold, the other shocked by the light of the room’s attention. The second had the prince’s dark hair, but it was nowhere near as long, fine, or well kept. Their pallours were similar, their eyes the same almond shape, but where the differences truly lay was within their clothing. Not in the sense of east and west, the young dark stranger wrapped in the same several layers of light fabric, only his were kept far closer to his body. The colours were dull, even under the glow of a thousand lanterns, and the silk worn with age and lack of proper upkeep. He did not seem the sort to have been invited to such an event, but this was not what drew the crowd’s attention. Instead, each eye points towards the white hand wrapped around the dark stranger’s waist, knuckles tense with the urge to protect.

The prince startles as the figure of the western man rises suddenly to his feet beside him, barely suppressing a jump but not tearing his stare away from the scene beginning to unfold. The man had seemed large and imposing in his seat, but stood on the podium, he looms over the prince to watch the scene himself over his head, breaths weighing heavy and chest heaving as he starts to fume. He raises an arm, and the prince nearly flinches again, before a loud click of his fingers breaks through the scandalised silence. With that, the knight bursts forward from his position at attention, lunging forward between the prince and the emperor to break through the crowd, storming towards the two young guests. The blonde steps forward, pushing the other behind him as he did so, and stands in front of him with his arms spread out wide as a weak but clear barrier.

With the slam of the knight’s boots on the marble floors, ten more pairs of feet spring into action, dark haired youths from all corners of the room leaping up from their previously conspicuous positions to rush towards the couple. Their clothes are just as shabby, perhaps perfectly acceptable to the common eye but to the prince, watching on like an owl would watch a family of mice, it was clear that they can only be poor imitations of high fashions. They start to surround the two men, circling around not to attack, but facing the audience with stern brows, demanding anyone to take a step closer. The crowds, milling about with drinks in their hands, take several steps back but never look away, too entertained by the scene to consider the danger as being greater than it seems to them. 

The prince, having been fed horror stories of attacks and assassination attempts throughout his childhood as justification for him imprisonment, knows all too well that the situation could quickly sour, his heart beating like a frenzied hummingbird in his chest. His feet begin to tremble, the pain of standing on their mangled forms too much for his lithe legs to handle, and he started to sway. The emperor reaches forward and grabs his sleeve, pulling him down to sit on the wide arm of the throne. From here, he had a much better view, not having to crane his neck over his shoulder.

This sudden call to action brings forth each guard stationed around the room, all of them wearing the same burgundy uniform Blanca seems to have foregone. They charge forward behind the knight, who stands at the front of their newly formed battalion as they arrange themselves into a position which traps each intruder into their little corner. Like the two facades of the Great Wall, the two lines of men stand face to face, only two metres, if even that, separating each of them from their counterpart stood directly opposite. The scoundrels appear ready, but scared, not one of them daring to move. Not the shuffle of feet, nor the repositioning of arms, or the flick of strands of hair which may have fallen to lay in front of their eyes. They had trained for this, Yut Lung knew. Nobody could be idiotic enough to attempt a siege of such grandeur without a plan at the very least, it simply wasn’t possible. However, no amount of planning could withstand the force of the Kingdom’s guards, the greatest men plucked from every corner of the sprawling continent, and educated by the finest strategists the world could offer.

And the Guards know better than anyone else in that room, barring perhaps the emperor, that any efforts of the vagrants would be folly. This knowledge, they clearly displayed through their body language. Straight backs and broad chests were drilled into them since childhood, but they looked relaxed nonetheless. Their stance is neither offensive or defensive, but ready for action nonetheless. Their arms do not hang freely by their sides, but they do not hold up their swords. This is to be a combat played between fists, if at all, the cold metal and leather hilts of each man’s sword going untouched.

That is, with the exception of the knight- Yut Lung’s knight. He stands just a step in front of his troop, feet spread wide as he crosses his arms over his armoured chest. The expression on his face turns odd. All at once, he seems to be both smirking at the stupidity of the boys, how they still stand as though they were going to come anywhere close to success in their plight; at the same time, disappointed in them. His smile quirks while his brow furrows, and deep dark eyes centre their focus at the one boy at the centre of it all, his golden hair still shining bright.

“What is all this for, Ash?”

The blond boy, Ash, shrugs, his face full of contempt. But he does not direct the same attention back to Blanca as the knight does to him. Instead, that piercing malachite glow soars straight past him- difficult, for the man is rather broad- and finds itself landing on the western man sat beside the Prince and his brother. For a moment, it flickers towards him, sat on the arm of the throne with the Emperor’s arm wrapped around his waist in a rather different manner to which Ash cradles the body of his black-haired companion. But the fleeting glance passes, and Ash’s gaze once again bores into the bald man.

“Was this your plan all along?” the knight continues.

“The Eastern lands were so kind to extend an invitation to your keeper, and he was generous enough to extend that to you. You promised to exercise your greatest behaviour on this trip, and yet here we stand.”

Then, it’s the bald man’s turn to speak. Where Blanca’s voice was stern, scolding Ash as a mother would her insolent child, the other is playful and teasing.

“The emperor and his family have been nothing but hospitable to us so far, Ash. Is this really how you intend to repay them? I thought we’d taught you better than that. I placed a great deal of trust in you, and you have broken it,” he tuts.

“If you call off your little friends now, I’m sure we can simply call this a bad night, and all will be forgotten. But this is not the first time you have caused such a disgrace to my family’s name, and if you are to continue, then you must know that I will not be as lenient with the consequences.”

Yut Lung can’t help but see the way Ash’s skin shivers as he listens to the monologue, his lip quirking as if to argue back, and his eyes darkening upon the realisation that to do so would ruin their entire endeavour. He looks at the boys surrounding him, his gaze lingering longer on the one quivering just behind him. The prince can almost see his thoughts. If he were to speak, it would not just be his life on the line- it would be the lives of all the boys surrounding him, none of them older than Ash or the prince. It sickens him, and he’s sure it sickens Ash more. But the strength in his shoulders does not waver or drop, and his feet remain solidly planted on the floor as he hardens his glare.

“Come now, Ash,” Blanca starts to speak again, “Put the boy down, and call all this off.”

“We are due to be leaving tomorrow, Ash,” the bald man continues, “Do you really want us to leave on such a horrid note? Whatever will the Kingdom think of us. You are about to lose me a very lucrative deal, one which would benefit you as much as it benefits me, and I’m sure that is the last thing you want to happen. 

“Come here, and we shall retire to our suite for the night. In the morning, you will beg the Emperor for forgiveness since you have ruined his carefully planned event, and then we shall return home. You know what to do.”

Ash’s chest puffs as a new energy seems to wash over him.

“Funny that you think i would ever do that,” he smirks. One hand reaches out to push the ink-haired boy further behind him. The other clenches into a fist. He quirks one brow, and opens his mouth.

“Go.”

* * *

Within mere minutes, Sing finds himself inside the palace’s towering walls. The gate was not open, and it was guarded on either side by two guards tall and broad, but from what he had seen by sneaking around the walls to scope out a plan of entry, they were the only people on guard at the threshold that night. A party, the villager had told him, going on in the belly of the palace, with anyone who is anyone from each corner of the kingdom and further beyond in attendance. Curious, that with such a high profile event in process what seemed like only metres away from where he stood at the palace gates, the walls would not be fortified with every bare knuckled man from the continent. It should have made him more relaxed- if there was nobody there to see him or to catch him, then there was no possibility of anything going wrong. But it didn’t. He knew that for what they lacked outside, the emperor and his brothers would more than make up for in protection when the servant boy entered. He scaled the wall nonetheless, feet clad in worn leather scrambling to find nooks in the brickwork in which to steady himself, his fingers trembling to pull up his weight on tiny ledges. 

There is no ladder of black silk to help him this time, but he reaches the top in a reasonably short amount of time. He takes a moment to sit atop the wall, hidden from the glow of lanterns by the shade of an aged tree, and catches his breath, allowing himself a second to be impressed by his feat. Then, he looks down. Despite the lights that surround him, he cannot see the ground beneath him. He can hear water, but in the darkness is too disorientated to discern whether it runs beneath him or far away, whether it is deep enough to drown him or if it would simply soak his calves. He’s up there now- he has no choice but to get down, one way or another, and he’s come too far to turn around now. He twists his body, straddling the top of the wall and thanking the gods that it had a flat top rather than a pointed one. 

Placing both hands tentatively on the edge closest to the palace, Sing begins to slide one foot down the inside wall, tracing its lines with his toes to find another ledge on which to place it. Finding nothing, he swings it from side to side in desperate hope, until his foot collides with something. He hears the scrape of metal on the stone, before something falling. The thud of the object on grass is clear, and he breathes a sigh of relief at the knowledge that a strong body of water does not lie directly beneath him. When his foot finds the niche, his arms are extended all the way up, fingertips barely clinging on to the crumbling stone as he solidifies his step. He won’t be able to keep hold much longer. He doesn’t know how much of the wall is left to descend. His fingertips are starting to turn white under the pressure. He lets go.

The thud of his body hitting the grass after a brief but terrifying fall is far louder than the lantern he had kicked out of its place, lying crumpled next to him with its light extinguished. It has not rained recently, but the ground is soft beneath him, and he can feel the green rubbing stains on the unbleached fabric of his shirt. His knees ache from the poorly executed landing, bearing the brunt of his own weight before he was able to roll first onto his side, knocking his shoulder against the ground, before coming to a stop on his back. No doubt within days his skin will become painted in shades of blue and purple, but if that’s the worst he has to deal with, he’ll consider the whole thing a success. He pauses, waiting to hear the stampede of guards’ footsteps running towards him at the sound of his intrusion. Nothing comes. He pushes himself up from the floor, and begins to walk in the direction of the palace.

The door is similarly unguarded, and the servant boy soon finds himself in the palace’s hallowed halls, stood alone on the hard marble floors of the corridors, bathed in the golden reflections of the mirrors lining the walls, breaths ringing loud in his ears from the adrenaline. That’s not the only thing he hears. It’s not the sweet, crooning music the royals seemed to be fond of, played on light strings and carved wood, as he had been expecting upon his entry. Nor is it the chatter of a thousand nobles networking, delegations from across the globe meeting here in his Kingdom’s capital of beauty and excess. Instead, angered cries echo through the maze of halls and entryways and rooms the palace is comprised of. Screams, shouts, yells, men both young and old joining the cacophony. Some women too, less angry and more terrified, rushing off to the sides of the orchestra as the baritone men step into the conflict. Sing recognises the words they’re shouting, knows their slang and their dialect. This is where all the guards have congregated, leaving their posts outside empty, and allowing the little servant boy to slip through unnoticed. But they are not the only people in that room. From the mess, Sing hears the odd twang of a word or phrase no noble would ever dare to let pass their lips, letters missed out or added, the accent of the city’s streets. Far from their little village of farmers and the land owners. And even further within that, a voice unfamiliar to the continent and to Sing, but he knows who it belongs to. The harshest, brashest, most passionate of them all. Ash must have started without him. He follows the noise, coming to two great doors in the shape of an arch, meeting at a sharp point in the middle. He tries the handle. It’s locked. He raises his foot up to the lock, and with every ounce of strength he can muster, kicks the wood. It swings open, and in an instance, he is confronted by the image his mind had conjured upon hearing the noise.

He can hardly tell apart his own allies from the guards, and them from the party’s guests, each person coming together to form one great mass of torn silk and ragged linen. Shards of glass lie on the floor in stained pools of red and green, glinting in the light. Paper lanterns have crumpled, tossed to the ground. Not a single person looks up to study him as he enters the room, scanning it quickly for the prince. And through it all, the emperor sits, barely visible through the line of defence stood around him, comprised of each of his brothers stood with their arms held in front of them, daring anyone to come close, and their feet planted firmly. Through the gaps left in between the wall of their bodies, Sing sees a sudden flash of blue and red, separated by folds of fabric and the gold filigree painted over them. Following, the gentle flow of black hair moving from behind a shoulder to rest in front of it, shifting the tail ends pooling on the floor. The prince, pulled in tight by the emperor behind their personal guard.

A yelp sounds out from the corner of the room to his left. Indignant, but not weak- like a dog fighting back against the restaurant owner trying to shoo him away from the alleyway outside his business’s back door. Or perhaps, a cat. He looks over, descending from the platform in front of the doors but not quite entering the fray, and sees Ash throwing someone out of his way- Eiji, the young Japanese boy he’d met once under the tower’s window while the prince slept, tossed into the arms of a waiting city hooligan, who quickly rushed him out of the way as the guard grabbed each of Ash’s shoulders, practically pinning him against the wall. Another man stands towering over him with a satisfied smile on his face, but Sing doesn’t have the time to be concerned. He doesn’t know Ash well, but he does know that the western youth is perfectly capable of handling himself, even against the knight- or so the servant boy has been told. Nevertheless, he nods in his direction, a small gesture of solidarity and confidence that Ash will not see, but will feel the effects of.

Now with his toes creeping over the sidelines of the action, Sing finds himself surrounded by infiltrators from the city, each of them watching with bated breath to see where he guides them. All had left in their dust at least one of the royal guards, now lying injured against walls, clutching their limbs tights as they bleed. He scans the room. They were outnumbered at the start, and despite great effort they are still outnumbered now. Ash cannot help them- he’d never agreed to doing anything more than causing a distraction, and he’d already played that role perfectly well. To go after the prince now, it would be suicide. But he doesn’t have time to waste- so he risks it.

“The brothers,” he spits, pointing over to the wall of crimson silk formed by the emperor’s family. Six of the vagrants look in their direction, before running at full speed towards them. They’d given the impression that they were ready for any attack, but royals are not trained to be fighters. And with two city boys to each brother, their fortress is soon taken down. When more guards rushed over to protect them, more hooligans followed, putting up a far more valiant fight than their numbers would suggest. They seem to be multiplying by the minute, and Sing can’t help but be in awe of how quickly Ash managed to accumulate such an army after only brief correspondence between the two through letters passed up and down the outside walls of the tower.

This sends the emperor into a panic. He leaps up from his throne, dragging Yut Lung with him. The prince struggles to catch his balance on tiny feet with the sudden movement and stumbles, supported only by his brother’s arm, protecting him as one would a fragile vase. Sing watches as the emperor’s expression turns from one of fury, to one of shock and desperation as dark eyes dart around the surroundings. With the throne pressed up against a wall, and enclosed by the beaten bodies of his brothers, he has nowhere to escape to. And finally, Sing gets the chance to look at Yut Lung’s face. Horror plagues those dark eyes, and under the makeup he knows that The prince’s skin has turned a deathly white. He wraps himself in his trailing sleeves, and surveys the gory scene before him with a heaving chest and trembling lip, leaning in to his brother’s hold.

He screams as he’s torn away from the emperor’s arm. With each of the other princes now taken care of, the gang has rushed towards the ruler, pulling him out of the way so that Sing finally gets his chance to intervene. And intervene he does. Barely managing to avoid tripping over the platform’s steps in his haste, he rushes forward and catches the toppling prince before he can fall to the ground. The sound of the emperor’s fervent shouting echoes loud throughout the room, and his brothers are beginning to regain themselves and stand to rejoin the fight.

“Can you stand, my prince?” he presses his lips close to Yut Lung’s ear, almost shouting himself to be heard over the crowd. Frozen in shock, the prince can do no more than shake his head. Sing sighs. Until that point, he had been able to keep himself from panicking. But strong as he may be, lifting their buckets of supplies and water each day, he is not equipped to carry the prince out of the palace with him, to a life outside the tower they’ve both been dreaming of. Despite this, he hooks his arms under the prince’s, arranging one to lie over his shoulder so that he may act as a crutch to his master, and flicking the prince’s curtain of hair over his over shoulders to keep it off the ground. And he begins to walk, weaving back through the crowds to the open doors. He imagines more guards, rushing in from their posts elsewhere in the city, flooding through that gap and stopping their escape in its tracks. He walks faster.

“Sing, where are you taking me?” Yut Lung gasps. His feet barely touch the floor as he leans on the servant, but he winces each time they come into contact, the muscles worn and cramping in the confines of the ribbons and the shoe. His eyes are wide with unshed tears, both suspicious and scared of the boy he had once come close to calling a friend. Sing’s heart aches at the sight, but he doesn’t have the time to explain to the prince that he’s doing it for both of their benefits. Yut Lung does not fight his hold, so Sing lifts him up higher to ease the burden on his weary feet, and continues.

A new shout rings out through the hall, this one louder than any other. It is the emperor, quickly rising to his feet with the aid of his brothers. None of them are chasing after the pair- they must have something planned, Sing thinks.

“Blanca!”

Sing looks over, and The prince follows his line of sight. The shout wasn’t loud enough. They watch as Blanca doesn’t do so much as flinch at the noise. He doesn’t look over his shoulder at the fleeing prince and servant, and he certainly doesn’t pull away to chase after them as the emperor was silently commanding him to. Instead, the entirety of his attention is focused on the wiley blond, thrashing in his hold and spitting at the bald man. It’s clear to them all now, exactly where the knight’s loyalties lie, and where they had laid all along. Sing allows himself one more quick glance at Yut Lung’s face, and sees the crushing defeat spread across his features when he realises that this time, Blanca isn’t coming to save him. Something strange stirs in Sing’s stomach- not the jealousy that had plagued him for so long watching the knight and the prince interact, but something else. A protective spirit, one which longs to cure the prince’s sadness. He’ll never let Yut Lung feel such a saddening emotion ever again. They’re almost at the door, with only the few steps leading up to it to go.

“You have to walk, my prince,” he says, tone made more harsh by his lack of breath than the comforting plea he had attempted, “I won’t drag you”.

And on the back of Blanca’s betrayal, a new sense of strength seems to wash over Yut Lung, who places both his feet solidly on the ground. Still leaning on Sing’s shoulder for support, he hobbles up the steps towards the door, Sing alongside him all the way. Once again on flat ground, the servant again lifts the prince higher on his back to lessen the weight on his feet, and the pair find their way out of the palace and onto the grounds. This time, the gates are open and waiting for them, with the farmer and his cart stood ready in between them. Sing settles the prince in the cargo hold, lifting him up with the farmer’s help onto a pile of blankets and other fabrics.

“I saw you climb that wall,” the farmer explains, “I couldn’t let you do it again with him. The gates were already open when I brought the cart around.”

“Thank you,” Sing breathes, bowing his head at the man.

“Climb in, we should go now- quickly.’’

Sing nods, and clambers ungracefully into the back of the cart at the prince’s side. The farmer takes his place, and drives off in the opposite direction of the tower, far away from the glow of the lanterns and the continuing noise of the altercation. He whispers a little thank you to Ash, sparing a thought for the wildcat who had offered to help the servant rescue the prince, before falling to his back. Now still, the adrenaline and the effort of the rescue catches up to him at once. His muscles ache, and each breath scratches the inside of his throat as he pants.

“Sing? What’s going on?” the prince whispers like a lost child, looking not at the servant lying beside him, but into the night sky. Dark, like his hair, and spotted with diamonds like his eyes.

Sing pushes himself back into a sitting position, and takes the prince’s delicate hands in his own, staring deep into his gaze. It takes him a moment to begin explaining, the prince searching his flushed face for any indicators.

“We found out about the party weeks ago,” he begins, “one of my cousins from the village told me. He put me in contact with someone from the western delegation, so he could help me get you out of there. I thought it would be the perfect opportunity, with you finally out of the tower. That it would be easy for us to just get up and run, while Ash distracted everybody else. It seemed like a good plan- I guess it worked.”

“But- why?” The prince stutters.

“You’re so sad, you’re always so sad. I’ve seen the way you look out at the world from the window. You get this look on your face, like you’re longing to be out there, and it was killing me to see you like that. I knew I had to get you out of that place. I’ve always known, ever since I started working for you.”

Yut Lung breathes in, and falls silent. His hands hold on to the servant’s tight, but he looks away. A pregnant pause passes before he starts to speak again.

“Blanca said-” 

His voice wavers.

“Blanca doesn’t care, my prince,” Sing says, frustrated, before unplanned words roll of his tongue.

“With all due respect, he doesn’t know you like I know you. He hasn’t seen all that i’ve seen. He doesn’t even work for your brother- when I saw him tonight, he wasn’t wearing the uniform of a knight. He doesn’t love you- I do.”

Yut Lung gasps. Sing watches as tiny trails of black begin to streak down from his eyes, wet with tears.

“I am the one who feeds you, dresses you, brushes your hair. I don’t do it out of a sense of duty, your highness, I do it because I truly care about you.”

After another solemn, silent moment, the prince speaks.

“Nobody has ever told me they care about me before.”

He doesn’t burst into a fit of sobs, but Sing can hear the way his breath hitches as though he’s holding them back. Throwing etiquette to the wind that blows around them, he wraps his arms around the shivering prince, and pulls his head in close.

“Where will we go now?”

Sing is surprised to hear those words, let alone the prince’s soft voice muffled by the servant’s shirt.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Somewhere new. Somewhere far away. Somewhere better.”


End file.
